


Saudade

by kingcaboodle



Series: Misery Loves Company [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Purple Hawke, Warden Bethany Hawke
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-26
Updated: 2016-12-30
Packaged: 2018-08-27 01:59:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 8,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8383501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kingcaboodle/pseuds/kingcaboodle
Summary: Saudade: A melancholic longing, the love that remains. We all know The Tale of the Champion (or Varric's version of it, anyway). But what about what actually happened?





	1. Stone-Cold Broke in the Market

**Author's Note:**

> Formerly known as "Hung-Up in Hightown," but I'm doing some adjusting

Bartrand’s office is small, dimly lit, and smells of stale cheese. Judging from the crumbs near the corner of his mouth, Hawke deduces that his beard may very well be the source of this odor. “We’ve wasted enough of your time.” She replies, eager to step back out into the comparably-breezy court of the merchant’s quarter, “Bethany.”

 

Bethany cocks a neatly-plucked eyebrow. _Really?_ She seems to think. _Is that really it?_ Skeptic or not, she follows Hawke back out into the sunlight. It is only when they are out of Bartrand’s earshot does she speak. “Well that was a bit,” she pauses, “anticlimactic.”

 

“We’ll find some way to gather coin, underground enterprise or not.” Hawke chuckles to herself. “Underground, because they’re heading into the Deep Roads?”

 

“No, sis,” Bethany nods, “I got it.” Hawke doesn’t miss the eye-roll to follow, and she doesn’t miss the slight smile that follows it. “I just wish there was something we could do.”

 

Hawke opens her mouth to answer, but the thoughts are knocked out of her head as a scrawny redhead barrels into her. He mutters an apology as he sprints away, and she instinctively reaches for the coin purse at her hip. “H-hey!” _That’s the last of our money, he can’t_ –

 

The thief lets out a yelp before Hawke can even think to pull the sword form her back. A single arrow pins him to the wall by the leather strap wrapped around his wrist. Hawke feels the anger explode behind her eyes, and she storms up to him, ready to strike. “Give me _that_.” She growls, snatching the purse back, not before taking out a few coppers out to tuck into his hand. “You could’ve just asked.” She adds on a gentler note. Flicking her head to the side, she yanks the arrow from the wall. “Now get out of here. And get yourself something to eat.”

 

She watches as he scurries off, clutching his wrist to his chest. He hadn’t looked like any old coterie thug trying to score an easy payload. She had seen that hungry, lost look many times while walking through Lowtown after a night of running jobs for Athenril.

 

“You know,” she hears behind her. “I had a whole act of heroism planned that _didn’t_ involve a surprise act of charity at the end.” Hawke turns to see a Dwarf – surprisingly nonbearded – sauntering up to her.

 

“Is this your arrow?” She asks, eyeing the crossbow on his back. Squinting at him, she frowns. “Wait, don’t I know you from somewhere?”

 

“Varric Tethras,” he says, holding a hand out. “And of course I know who you are. You’ve made quite a name for yourself in the last year.”

 

Varric Tethras. So that’s where she knew him from. “Funny,” she says dryly, ignoring his outstretched hand. “You look different without the swarm of women around you.”

 

He grins at her, a hell-of-a-smile that almost knocks her off her feet. “You’re familiar with my work!” For a moment, she wants to smile back. “Although, why you’d pick _Swords and Shields_ is beyond me.”

 

“Io loves her romances,” Bethany says, giving Hawke a coy look. “The poor thing was in tears when we had to leave her trunk behind in Lothering.” She rests her elbow on Hawke’s shoulder, staring down at Varric curiously. “Tethras, huh? So Bartrand is your,” she trails off.

 

“Brother, yes.” Varric finishes. “And, lucky for you two, I’m willing to look for space for you on this expedition of ours. But it’s gonna cost you.”

 

“Ah,” Hawke nods, “so you’re going to extort us?”

 

Varric laughs, a sound that Hawke doesn’t necessarily dislike. “I’m not here to extort you. I’m here to _work_ with you.” His eyes are kind. “Like I said, you’ve made quite a name for yourself in the last year, and I think that we can use you down in the Deep Roads. Not as a hire for the expedition, but as a _partner_. If there’s one thing Bartrand can’t say no to, it’s coin.” Varric scratches his chin, appearing to think about it. “I’d say fifty sovereigns’ll do the trick.”

 

“If I had fifty sovereigns, I wouldn’t be doing this!” Hawke exclaims.

 

“Listen, Hawke, I know it sounds impossible, but just think of how much coin you’ll be rolling in afterwards.” When Hawke begrudgingly notes that he has a point, he continues. “And I never said I wouldn’t help you scrape it together. Bartrand needs a way into the Deep Roads, and I’ve got the tip on a Warden with a map.”

 

Hawke frowns, turning to Bethany. “What do you think of all this?” She asks, watching as Bethany pauses to blow her bangs out from over her eyes.

 

“I think that it couldn’t hurt.” She replies. “You said it yourself, Io. This could be it for us. For all of us.”

 

Hawke thinks back to Gamlen’s house in Lowtown, struggling to scrape together enough food for the four of them, tensions running high between Bethany and their uncle. “You’ve got a deal, Varric.” She hears herself say. “Let’s go find ourselves a Warden.”

 


	2. No Rest for the Wicked

Varric can’t believe the stroke of good luck he finds himself in. The Deep Roads Expedition at his fingertips, Hawke at his disposal, a city guard in her pocket – things are looking up. He chews on the tip of his quill, staring absently at the dripping candle on the table. Bianca had always told him that he was good with people, usually in a snarky way, but he took what he could get.

 

_“Well, you’re just friendly with everyone, aren’t you?”_ She would ask before pulling him in close. Close enough to breathe in the smoke caught in her hair. _“But I think I like you best when you’re friendly with me.”_

“So this is your base of operations, huh?” Varric’s head snaps up, and he sees Hawke, arms crossed, leaning in the doorframe. “I was never sure if anyone actually stayed up here. Isabela’s always planted at the bar.”

 

“You can come in, you know.” He says, leaning back in his chair. He had decided on the first day that he met her that he found the discomfort with which she handled herself endearing. Varric watches as she walks towards the table, her movements hesitant as though she’s expecting something to jump out at her. “Don’t worry,” he assures her. “I’d warn you if there was a trap nearby.”

 

She slides into a chair, and Varric notices the black circles under her eyes. “I don’t know about that.” She replies. “I got a spike through the foot before you could say ‘What are they trying to do? Ruin my boots?’”

 

She smiles crookedly – Varric realizes that it is the first time that she has done so in his presence – meeting his eyes only briefly before she continues looking around the room. He laughs, shaking his head. “Alright, I’ll give you that one.” He rests an elbow on the tabletop, waiting for her to look at him before he speaks. “So did you really take down an ogre?” She nods, and he lets out an appreciative whistle. “What was going through your mind when you saw that thing?”

 

“Maker, that’s big.” She replies, almost automatically. Her eyes widen, as though she is caught off-guard by her own response. Varric laughs as he notices the blush creeping across her cheeks. “I mean really,” she continues. “What do they _feed_ those things?” Hawke sighs, running her hand along the smooth top of her head. “On second thought, I’m not sure that I want to know.”

 

“Can I get you a drink?” Varric watches as she yawns widely. “Or maybe a pillow and a warm blanket?”

 

She looks at him through bleary eyes, and he finds himself wondering when the last time she slept was. “I just stopped by for a visit. And to say that we’re about halfway to our fifty sovereigns.” She stifles another yawn, and Varric sees her eyes dart briefly to his bed in the corner. “With all the recruiting we’ve been doing, and that business with my grandparents’ will – I almost forgot the expedition entirely.” She waves a hand in front of her face. “No matter, I’ll get back on track.”

 

“Hawke,” Varric pauses, testing the waters for a moment before he decides that it isn’t really a big deal. “Io,” he says. This seems to get her attention, and her back straightens at the sound of her first name. “Io, you know you’re not _working_ for me, right?” He smiles. “We’re having an adventure. There’s no deadline here.”

 

The look that she gives him tells Varric that this isn’t something that’s crossed her mind, but she goes along with it anyway. “Of course I know that.” She replies. “It’s late, I should get going.”

 

It’s seven, the sun barely over the horizon. Varric watches as she rises slowly to her feet, pausing to raise her arms over her head in a deep stretch. “This is the beginning of something great, Hawke.” He tells her. Before she can leave, he calls her name again. “And Io?” Her eyes are wary as she turns, almost as though she doesn’t trust him. “Try and get some rest, okay?” Her fingers are tight on the doorframe, and for the briefest of seconds Varric wonders if he should let her stay the night. The thought is out of his head before he can register it, and he gives her another smile. “Coin doesn’t sleep, but you need to.”

 

“Right,” she says slowly. “I’ll be off, then.”

 

When she’s gone, Varric returns to the half-started draft that sits in front of him. _You’re just friendly with everyone, aren’t you?_ He thinks idly, pausing to scratch out the last line he had written. Staring down blankly at the page, he feels a smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

 

_A hero with insomnia, huh? Not the most outrageous thing I’ve written._

 


	3. Casanova

Io Hawke had been called a lot of things in her life. Criminal, smart-ass, dog-lord, sweetie (although, Gamlen hadn’t sounded very sincere when he had dropped that one on her); the fact remained that there were very few titles that surprised her. That is, until, Isabela leans drunkenly into her one night, her breath tinted with the Hanged Man’s house special, her eyes sweet. “You’re quite the _flirt_ , aren’t you?”

 

She blushes, laughing in an attempt to deflect the claim, her eyes searching the bottom of her empty pint. “I think I might need a refill.” She says, ducking out from Bela’s grip. Her face is hot, uncomfortably so under the amused stares of her new companions. A night of hunting down Feynriel had ended with a few hands of cards and a few too many drinks in Lowtown. Naturally, things had run off the rails some time ago.

 

Hawke stands at the bar, her fingers curled tightly around the edge of the counter, willing her blood to cool. _A flirt, me?_ She can’t fathom the thought, though she understands how she might be perceived as such. The quiet life in Lothering hadn’t required much friendship-building. Her social circle had been fairly limited to Bethany and Carver, Mother, and (before he had died) Father. Bethany had always gotten along well with the other children from surrounding farms, often sneaking off to the tavern to listen to that redheaded Chantry sister. Hawke had found befriending people to be a cripplingly difficult task, her mind bogged down with so many anxieties that the words simply never made it out in time to make a lasting impression.

 

She had learned from early on to rely on the first, irreverent thoughts to pop into her head. And given her more _colorful_ literary tastes (and gooey-eyed daydreams about the strapping boy from the neighboring farm, or one of the more shapely Sisters running errands for the Chantry), flirtations accounted for many of those initial greetings. Most of the time she couldn’t even remember what she had said afterwards, using her words like deflections much like Aveline used her shield. After all, she couldn’t bring herself to actually mean what she said. A scrappy thing from birth, she had found more comfort in the heft of a sword in her hands rather than under the heavy arm of some slack-jawed paramour. Not that she had ever gotten to the point of finding herself under the arm of anyone, slack-jawed or not. In Lothering, her cavalier attitude and hot temper had quickly ensured that most of her time was spent with the training dummies out on the outskirts of their fields. She had made a habit of deflecting troubling emotions with either jokes or fists, and it hadn’t failed her quite yet.

 

_Yet_.

 

“Fancy meeting you here,” a voice smoother than freshly churned butter drifts through her ears, and Hawke feels her knees buckle. “How’d it go with the mage? All those drunken smiles at the table, I’m assuming that you found him.”

 

Hawke’s grip tightens, and she feels as though she might rip the bar out from the ground. “Feynriel is safe. We took care of the slavers.” She forces herself to turn her head and smile. “Took care of them so well, in fact, that they’ve decided to pursue more charitable outlets. As fertilizer at the bottom of a pit.”

 

Despite the fact that Varric Tethras only comes up to her shoulder, he frightens her worse than any ogre could hope to. She thinks that it’s his eyes. Smiling at her warmly, even now as his face sets into a slightly more serious look. “That looks like a pretty nasty cut on your cheek.” He says. “You should have Blondie take a look at it.”

 

“Bethany healed me, it was worse before.” She picks at the still-tender wound absently. “I don’t think it’ll scar, and that’s alright if it does. I already have a few. I don’t mind adding to the collection.” She wants to stop talking, but he’s smiling at her in that way that makes her feel as though she isn’t quite in on the joke. “I’m actually about to get going. Busy schedule ahead tomorrow. Templars to look for, and all that.”

 

“Already?” He shakes his head, “But I just got here!”

 

“Justice needs its beauty rest.” She hears herself saying. “Just ask Anders.” This earns her a laugh that pools like honey in her belly, and she nods curtly. “Yes, well, please tell Bethany that I’ve gone back to Gamlen’s.” Hawke runs her hand over the top of her head, an unfortunate tell that never ceased to lose her money during Wicked Grace. “I’ll swing by tomorrow when we get ready to head out. I don’t think I want to listen to Aveline fight with Isabela for another day.”

 

“Oh come on, Hawke,” he lifts an eyebrow. “I know you just like having me around, you don’t have to make excuses.” To Hawke’s utter horror, he gives her a wink. “Don’t worry, I’m not upset that I’m the only person you haven’t tried to flirt with as yet. I know you’re working up to something very romantic.”

 

She feels her mouth opening, her ears deaf to the words that are actually coming out. All she knows is that she can still hear Varric laughing as she bolts towards the door.


	4. Anger Management

“I mean, can you believe the nerve of him?” She is a Wyvern, pacing angrily around the room, having spit venom all the way from the Gallows to Lowtown. “I go out of my way to find _his_ recruits, and the only thing he can think to tell me is that he’s heard _interesting_ rumors about my sister.”

 

Varric follows her with his eyes. Her jaw is tight, her back hunched stiffly, and her still-bloodied fist is clenched tightly at her side. He realizes that, for the first time, he is seeing her angry. “Hawke,” he interjects weakly, torn between wanting to help and an amused desire to see if she punches anyone else.

 

“I didn’t have to do it, you know.” She says, ignoring him as she pulls her gauntlets off and throws them to the ground. “I could’ve let that poor boy be torn apart by blood mages.” She pauses. “Well, I wouldn’t have, his sister was very worried. But I didn’t do it for the Maker-damned Templar Order!”

 

“Hawke.”

 

“Talking about magic like it’s inherently evil,” she continues. “My cousin was in the Circle, you know. Didn’t make it out alive, but it wasn’t blood magic that cut her down.” Hawke charges towards the table, and Varric fears for a minute that she might punch _him_. “They’re people like you and me, damn it! It’s power-hungry maniacs like him that,” she slams her fist down on the tabletop and cries out in pain. “That stupid bastard broke my hand!” She spits out tearfully.

 

“ _Io_ ,” Varric takes this as his cue and steers her gently to the bed. “Sit down before you hurt yourself. Or worse, before you break something.” She eyes him warily as she sinks down onto the bed, her hand clutched tightly to her chest. “I’m no Blondie,” he says, rummaging through his pack for spare bandages. “But I can patch that up for you until you go see him.”

 

She starts to argue, and Varric sees the skittish, wild-eyed look cross her face. “You’re not going anywhere,” he says, before she can make up an excuse to leave. When she holds her hand out begrudgingly, he gets to work. “I don’t think it was the Knight-Captain’s face that broke your hand.” He tells her, wrapping the bandages as slowly as he can. “It was the wall you punched on the way over that did it. I’ve seen battering rams leave smaller holes than that.”

 

“Aveline can cover it up with one of her guard posters.” She mutters, her stare planted firmly on his chest.

 

Varric notices the blush spreading across her cheeks. His new favorite game was waiting to see just how many semi-flirtatious smiles it took to get her going, and he notes that this might be his new personal best. “I’ve gotta admit, for a second I thought I was looking at Justice. You were practically glowing.” He places a finger under her chin, tilting her head up gently to meet her eyes. “Not that you’re not _always_ glowing, but this was scarier.”

 

He knows that he should probably take it easy on her, even as he feels the laughter bubbling up within him as she sputters incoherently. But he can’t help it. The way her cheeks reddened, the way she smoothed out the hair (that didn’t exist) on the top of her head. It was almost like she was asking for it. But most of all, Varric liked the moments between her blushing and when she managed to compose herself. The briefest of seconds when her eyes lit up, and she smiled at him bashfully. The kind of smile that made his heart do back flips in his chest. It was crooked and awkward, as though she wasn’t used to doing it. Clumsy, much like Hawke herself.

 

“I don’t know how you do it, Varric.” She says, drawing him out of his thoughts. Her chin still rests in his hand, her eyes thoughtful as they probe his own. “You’re so _calm_ and collected. You don’t even sound all that annoyed when Sebastian acts like, well, Sebastian.” To his surprise, she takes his hand gently within her own. “Is it because I care too much?”

 

“Oh, you definitely care too much.” He replies. Hawke’s hands are a warrior’s hands, calloused and rough. She falters at the sound of his reply, beginning to draw back, but he places a hand over hers and grins. “But I don’t think that’s a bad thing.” When she looks at him skeptically, he shrugs. “What can I say? A hero with a heart of gold? People eat that crap up, you can’t go wrong.”

 

“Right,” she replies dryly. “I’ve heard that you’ve been telling stories about me. I can’t say that I mind too much. Although,” she frowns at him. “I wish you would stop telling people that I’m on the market. You’re beginning to sound like my mother.”

 

He lifts his hand to tap her gently on the nose, chuckling at the little crinkle that forms above it when she frowns deeper. “From what Rivaini told me after you left the Hanged Man that night, you’ve got Kirkwall’s finest lined up outside your door to snatch you up, herself included.”

 

“Isabela is a ride I don’t think I would survive.” She says gravely. “She told me so herself.” Tugging at her earlobe, she examines the bandage around her hand. “I really should go see if Anders can fix me up. Not to say you didn’t do a fine job,” she adds quickly. “But I should see a professional.” Her eyes soften, and for a minute Varric feels like someone is punching him from the inside of his body. “And I worry about him, alone in Darktown. He’s quite sweet when you get to know him, you know. He leaves cream out for the cats.”

 

“He’s not lonely, he has Justice.” The words are meant to come out as a jest, but they leave his mouth more sourly than he intends; though, for the life of him, Varric cannot think why. He watches as Hawke rises from the bed, yawning as she does so, before she tries to scoop up and put on her armor with her good hand. “Just leave it here,” he says, snorting as the chest piece clatters to the floor. “You can come by once you’re all fixed up.”

 

She smiles at him gratefully. “Thanks, I’ll be back later tonight. Or tomorrow morning, depending on how long this takes.” Waving at him with a flash of her bandaged hand, she makes for the stairs. “I’m off!”

 

“Don’t get into anymore fights!” He calls at her back as she bounds down the stairs. “At least not any good ones without me!”

 

She throws him another smile over her shoulder before disappearing from his view, and Varric sinks into the nearest chair, the light still exploding behind his eyes.

 

 


	5. Beach Day

“You need to work on your lying.” Varric tells her, flecks of dried blood still in his hair. “Or at least let me do the talking next time.”

 

But his words are light, and Hawke laughs, throwing him a smile as they leave the apostate’s hideout behind them. Despite the fact that being on the Wounded Coast usually leaves her with gruesome mental images of massive head trauma and amputated limbs, Hawke feels unusually airy, floating along merrily despite the sand in her boots. It was strange, but she had been having a number of remarkably good days lately. Her mind at ease for the first time since getting off of that blasted boat at the Gallows. Maybe it was an afternoon of killing Templars that had done the trick. Punching that smug Knight-Captain outside of the Order’s stronghold had certainly helped. She had smiled for at least a week after.

 

“Varric,” she turns, pausing to appreciate how the sunlight bounces off of his hair. “Do you think the water’s cold?” When he only stares at her, smile playing on his plump lips, one eyebrow slightly cocked, she puts her hands on her hips. “What, you’ve never gone to the beach before?”

 

“A lot of beaches in Ferelden, are there?” He shoots back. “You’re more likely to find a nest of spiders than a relaxing place to tan.”

 

Hawke lifts one dark brown hand, inspecting it carefully in the sun. “Well then,” she says finally. “It’s a good thing I already took care of all of my tanning in the womb then.” When this earns her a chuckle, she goes on. “And what’s a few dozen spiders, anyway? We killed enough on the way over.”

 

“Come on, sis,” Bethany turns to look at her incredulously. “Don’t you want to get back to Gamlen’s? Take a bath? Lie down?” She sighs dreamily. “Maybe eat something sweet, like a warm piece of cake.”

 

Hawke frowns. “Where have you found cake at Gamlen’s?” She thinks about it and adds, “And are you _sure_ it was cake?”

 

“Your darling sister has a point, Hawke.” Isabela slings her arm around Bethany’s shoulders. “I had quite the night last night – if the marks I woke up with are to be believed – and I’d like to find myself with a cold drink in my hand and a warm hand between my –”

 

“You’re all a bunch of _cowards_.” Hawke says, cutting her off. Turning to Bethany, she tries to dial up the charm. “Come on, Bethany. Sis. _Sissy-dearest_. You loved when Father would take us to splash around in that little brook behind the farm! Think of this as just a bigger version of that, with more spiders. And the spiders are bigger too.”

 

Varric nods at her side, obviously amused. “That’s right, don’t undersell the spider aspect of it. You’re doing great.”

 

Isabela looks from Hawke to Bethany and back to Hawke before she breaks out into a smile. “Then it’s settled! Bethany, Varric, and I will return to Kirkwall. And you can frolic on the beach with your spiders.”

 

“Oh, look at what you’ve done, Rivaini.” Varric clicks his tongue in mock-disapproval. “You’re really going to deny such a sweet soul some time in the sun?” Sighing dramatically, he places his hand on Hawke’s forearm and looks up at her sincerely. “Who am I to deny a lady her wish of sitting by the sea? Besides,” he breaks into that grin that sets every cell in her body aflame. “You know I can’t bear to see a Human cry.”

 

Hawke’s face burns, and her cheeks almost ache as she feels herself grinning wider than she has done in quite some time. The sun in their eyes, his hand on her arm – it feels like something out of one of his more clichéd romance serials. From somewhere far away, Isabela’s bored voice breaks up her thoughts. “Well, that settles that.” Hawke turns to see her nuzzle her nose against Bethany’s cheek. “Looks like it’s just you and me, pet. Maybe I’ll tell you about those six things on the way back.”

 

“I’ll see you at home, sis!” Bethany calls back, her eyes still glued on Bela as they make their way down the path.

 

Hawke watches them until they recede over the horizon, and she turns to see Varric staring up at her expectantly. “Well,” he says, holding up his hands. “This is your show, kid. What comes next?”

 

“Well,” she mimics his spread-armed stance. “Now we go down to the water.”

 

They walk down the path to the shoreline in silence. It isn’t an uncomfortable one, like the ones Hawke is accustomed to dreading between Gamlen and her mother, or between herself and Fenris. Instead, she is focused on how contented, how _in-sync_ she feels. Their steps in line, their paces equal – she has never felt this feeling of harmony with anyone. Bethany and Carver had always displayed the link common among twins, leaving her out of the loop unintentionally. But this, this felt nice.

 

“It’s beautiful,” she breathes out when they arrive at the water’s edge. The sunlight glitters across the surface, the sky a hazy pink contrast to the clear blue sea. “You know, I always heard that blood mages dance naked under the moonlight. Doesn’t that sound like fun?” She nods. “I bet they do it in places like this.”

 

Varric snorts, eyes glinting with something she can’t read. “If you’re a blood mage, then I’m a blood mage.” He says.

 

Hawke knows that it’s her mind playing tricks, but his voice is husky in her ears, and she suddenly finds herself roasting under her armor. “Well then,” she mumbles, clambering out of the bulky weight of her chest piece.

 

“You don’t want to at least wait until the moon is out?” He says, laughing when she kicks sand in his direction.

 

“I’m just taking off my armor.” She says hotly, dropping herself and her gauntlets to the ground. “It gets so hot running around in all that. Not like you’d know,” she pauses to yank off her boots, flexing her toes. “With that coat and your heaving bosom out in the fresh air.”

 

He shrugs his duster off, dropping down next to her. “My heaving – face it, Hawke, I’m eye candy.” He trails his fingers along his chest. “It’s the chest hair, you don’t have to say it, I know.”

 

“The chest hair doesn’t do it for me, actually.” She says unconvincingly, hoping that her voice isn’t as high and indignant as it sounds in her ears.

 

“Oh no?” He sidles closer. “Then why are you blushing so hard?”

 

She bolts to her feet. “How about that water? I’m going to go dip my feet. Sweaty boot feet, and all that. We’ve done a lot of walking today.”

 

Her face is almost as hot as the sand beneath her feet.   


	6. Take Me Home Tonight

He watches her from the beach, her face soft as she kicks around in the water, her breeches rolled up to her knees. Varric feels himself smile, his fingers tracing absent shapes into the sand. He had to admit, it wasn’t the worst way to spend an evening. After all, his last few nights had been spent struggling over his latest letter to Bianca. Usually the words came easy; everything between him and Bianca had always been easy. It wasn’t as though he was writing her love letters. But there were letters. And some would say that there was certainly love _in_ them. Varric chews on the inside of his cheek, digging his hand further into the sand. _But it’s not a love letter if she waits to read it while her husband is asleep, is it?_

 

“You look like you’re thinking quite hard.” Hawke sits next to him, her shirt thoroughly soaked, her hands full of seashells. Her eyes are on the sun slowly sinking into the sea, and Varric muses that, for once, she is bathed in a pink-tint that she herself did not produce. “I wish I could stay like this.” She says quietly, her voice dreamy.

  
“Soaking wet and shivering?” He asks, noticing the bluish tint spreading across her lips. Varric shakes the sand out of his jacket, leaning over her to wrap it carefully around her shoulders. His head swims when he pulls back, the sea air clawing at the insides of his nostrils.

 

Hawke thanks him, pulling the coat tightly around herself. “Shivering is nice, too, but I meant this.” She gestures abstractly. “Feeling happy, I guess.” She rubs her hand over the top of her head, shrugging bashfully. “It sounds silly, but I’ve just felt _good_ lately. Like I’ve found something that I didn’t know I was missing.” Her laugh is watery, tears welling in her eyes. “For the first time in forever, I feel like I’ve come home! So silly.”

 

Before he can think, he is reaching out to brush the tears out of her eyes. She swats his hand away, and for a split second he fears – actually fears – that he has crossed a boundary that will set back the progress that they have made. Instead, she laughs again, drawing her arm across her face. “You’re rubbing sand into my eyes, Varric.”

 

“Shit,” he laughs, dusting his hand off on his shirt. “I meant for that to be comforting. Let me try again.” Varric leans forward to cup her face in his hands. “You’re home, Hawke. You’ve finally come home.” He strokes her cheeks with his thumbs, shooing away stray tears. The sound of the waves crashing on the shore mix with the blood pounding in his ears, and his chest constricts not-uncomfortably. He’s never noticed how large and dark her eyes are, like staring into two warm pools of brandy.

 

He feels her smiling before he can focus on it, and she begins to pull away. “You can let go now, Varric.” When he does, hesitantly so, she shakes herself out. “Aah, we’ve laughed, we’ve cried, a successful day at the beach I’d say.” She grins her crooked grin, and he feels his fist tighten in his lap, yearning to reach out for her again. “Would you like a seashell to commemorate our time together?” She asks, eyes flashing brightly as she holds the pale shell in front of his face.

 

Varric notices that his hand is shaking as he reaches to take it, and he finds himself at a loss as Hawke pulls on her boots and clambers to her feet. As she brushes the sand off of her pants, she speaks. “Did I mention that we’re good to go on the Deep Roads?” When he stares up at her blankly, she nods. “The coin I managed to squeeze out from that little bastard Javaris put us at our goal. It’s my fault for taking so long, really. Ordering all those poisons from that catalog. But no matter,” she holds a hand out, helping Varric to his feet. “We’ll speak to Bartrand first thing tomorrow.”

 

“You’re not going to regret this.” He hears himself saying, praying that it’s true.

 

She cocks her head, looking at him curiously. “I couldn’t regret it.”

 

She shrugs, giving him another easy smile that knocks the air out of him. _Who_ is _this?_ He thinks, watching as she turns to take one last look at the glittering waters before them. _Is this really the same chronically-uncomfortable Hawke?_

 

“Who knows,” she says thoughtfully. “Maybe the real Deep Roads expedition is the friends we made along the way.”

 

“Try telling that to Bartrand,” he jokes. “I’m sure he’ll love that.” He nudges her playfully as they set off down the path. “You really lucked out, Hawke. Not only am I the handsome brother, but I value our friendship more than some priceless treasure down in a thaig.” He winks, “Or at least consider it a very close second.”

 

“By this point, I’ll take what I can get.” She replies, throwing him a wink of her own.

 

Later that night, Varric lies awake in bed, Hawke’s skin still cool under his fingertips, his letter to Bianca in the trash.

 


	7. Regret

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wouldn't you love to read a chapter from me that isn't just steeped in tragedy? (Don't worry, there's fluff ahead on the horizon)

_“You’re not going to regret this.”_

Hawke, bathed in sunlight, dripping wet and grinning at him. Hawke, laughing off Bartrand’s double-crossing, her hand reassuring on the back of his neck, more optimistic than he had ever seen her before. Hawke, huffing and puffing, standing over him with her sword at the ready, striking the decisive blow against the rock wraith. Hawke, her fingers calloused against his chest as she slips a single gold coin into his jacket, her eyes glittering mischievously.

 

_“I told you you wouldn’t regret it_ , _”_ the words coming out of his mouth cockily, almost inviting another shit storm to overtake them.

 

Hawke, her eyes red and swollen, Bethany’s head in her lap, singing quietly as she combs her fingers through her little sister’s hair. Varric watches them from a distance, his words ringing hollowly in his ears. _“You’re not going to regret this.”_

 

At his side, Blondie thumbs nervously at the map in his hands. “We don’t have much time.” He says quietly. “The Blight moves quickly, we need to get her to the Wardens.”

 

“I’m not going to be the one to tell her that.” Varric says hoarsely, his eyes glued to the pained smile on Hawke’s lips. “If you want to tell her, be my guest. But I’m not going to.”

 

He watches Blondie slink over to her, his ears deaf to the bad news that follows. He watches her shoulders shake, a shake that almost looks like a laugh if you didn’t know any better, her lips still moving in a song that rings unfamiliar in his ears.

 

_“You’re not going to regret this.”_

Her face is grim as she rises to her feet, gently bringing Sunshine up with her before hoisting her onto her back, Hawke’s sword lying forgotten on the stone. Varric looks away as Bethany wipes a tear from her sister’s face, managing the weakest of smiles before she closes her eyes. He feels responsible, and the weight of what he has done suffocates him.

 

“We’re going to get you out of here, Bethany.” Hawke says, her voice a steady soothing lull that Varric doesn’t recognize. “We’re going to get you out.”

 

_“You’re not going to regret this.”_

Varric watches, powerless, as Hawke beats her fists bloody against the stone. Bethany had been taken by the Wardens at least an hour ago, but she had remained, staring after them with that strange, frozen smile on her face. It was only when Blondie had gently suggested that it was time to head back to the surface that she had crumpled, and now here they are.

 

“We have to get her up.” He says, voice flat. “She’s going to kill herself at this rate.”

 

“Well don’t look at me,” Anders shoots back, trails of dried blood still under his nostrils. “You saw what happened when I tried to get close. I’m not going back over there.”

 

Varric flexes his hands absently at his sides. _Regret._ He thinks idly, Hawke’s wails bouncing off of the walls inside his head. _Everything was looking up, and now suddenly, regret. But regret for who, exactly?_ His feet move him to where she lies face-down on the stone, her body heaving with ragged sobs. “Hawke,” his voice is cracked, unfamiliar.

 

She doesn’t look up, her cries strangled inside of her throat. Varric can’t help but stare at her hands. _“That stupid bastard broke my hand!”_ But this time there was no Knight-Captain to blame. Only Varric and his promises of opportunity.

 

“Hawke, I,” he finds himself at a loss for words. A rare moment that is not completely lost on him. He can’t think, can’t find the words that get him out of this one. He lowers himself to the ground, shrugging off Bianca so that he can lie down comfortably at her side.

 

She stares at him unseeingly through bloodshot eyes, her face swollen from crying, her body wracking with the sobs that would not come. For a moment everything disappears around them, and Varric feels as empty as any consolations he can offer her. “Will you let Blondie take care of your hands?” He asks quietly.

 

Her eyes focus on him, her stare blank. Varric is worried that she’ll refuse, but she sits up wordlessly, turning her dull gaze to Anders. The healing is slow, and comparably superficial to what Varric knows is yet to come. As he coaxes her off of the ground and onto her feet, he prays that she is alive to regret his actions by the time they leave the thaig.


	8. Sun'll Come Out

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not dead, just creeping! I've been super busy with wrapping up the semester (and a few mental health things), but I just want to let you all know that I'm still chipping away at all three of the fics in this series (albeit, very slowly)!
> 
> A few housekeeping announcements:
> 
> \- Chapter updates are probably going to be put on hiatus until December 17th while I finish up finals and making the trek from campus to home (but after that, I'm going to be churning out works like you wouldn't believe)
> 
> \- Do you ever wonder when I'm going to update? Do you find yourself with burning questions, or headcanons, or just want to chat? Find me on tumblr (corypheus-crystal-dick)! Everything related to updates and ideas is tagged "ficblogging" (I'm still working on compiling the multitude of untagged posts about my work). 
> 
> As always, thank you so much for reading :)

When they get back to the surface, Hawke doesn’t eat, doesn’t sleep, doesn’t do much of anything. The air at Gamlen’s is heavy and stale, and not even burying her face in Raisins’ thick coat can make her feel better (though it could not be said that the Mabari wasn’t trying his absolute damndest to cheer her up). She spends her nights down by the docks, or wandering Lowtown, though she makes a point to steer clear of the Hanged Man. Varric had made it clear to her when they got back up on the surface that he was there if she needed anything. At first she is grateful, her mind foggy with blurred visions of him lying with her on the floor of the thaig. But the fear soon sets in, the resentment building in the back of her throat, the voice in her head reminding her that she is to be blamed for what is going on.

 

So she resists.

 

She resists and lurks the streets of Kirkwall, spending night after sleepless night looking for brawls to take her mind away from Bethany and the Grey Wardens. Looking for something – even a few broken ribs – to stop the unceasing stream of criticisms coming from inside of her own head. She tries this for days? Weeks? She isn’t quite sure, her days bleeding together in a painful blur before her eyes. But finally one night, it happens, and she finds herself staring down the tavern doors.

 

She doesn’t want to go in. She doesn’t want to see her friends sitting at their usual table, the space between Isabela and Merrill empty and waiting for Bethany to claim it. Her jaw clenches, teeth gnashing together until she is certain that they will chip. _Don’t do it. Just don’t do it._ But she lifts a shaky hand, pushing through the door and crossing the threshold.

 

The Hanged Man is familiarly warm, full of music and drunken conversation, but Hawke feels a chill seeping through her that she can’t exactly place. Their table is empty, save for a few unfamiliar faces lost in their pints, and she feels a stab of relief. She knows she isn’t big enough to house a crowd, not right now.

 

She hangs her head as she weaves through the maze of tables, taking the stairs two at a time until she freezes in the doorway. _What do I even say?_ The thought bursts into her head, panicked. _“I killed my sister and I need you to make it better?” That_ can’t _be my only option._

 

Varric is sitting at the table, his head bent, his pen moving hastily across the page in front of him. _He doesn’t even know I’m here. It would take no effort to just back away and pretend that this never_ –

 

His eyes meet hers as she takes a step back, and the chair clatters to the floor as he shoots out of it. “Maker’s _breath,_ Hawke! We’ve been looking for you everywhere!” He looks as though he is ready to charge at her, but stops himself. “Why are you lurking like that? Come in, come in.”

 

“I couldn’t sleep.” She rasps at him, fingers curled tightly around the doorframe. “I couldn’t sleep, and I didn’t know where else to go.” For the briefest of seconds, Hawke hates him. Hates the way his face softens when he looks at her, the way his eyes seem to pierce right through her. “I,” she laughs mirthlessly. “I killed my siblings, Varric. First Carver, now Bethany.” She doesn’t realize that she’s crying until she tastes the salt of her tears on her tongue. “Mother won’t say it, but I know what she’s thinking. I can feel that heavy silence, that resentment filling every corner. She won’t say it, but I killed her babies. I left them to die.”

 

Varric manages to pry her from the doorway, shutting the door behind them as he ushers her to the bed. Hawke can hear him murmuring sweet nothings, but the noise is too far for her to make out the words. She feels weak, the embarrassment bubbling up inside of her like a poison. “I shouldn’t have come,” she hears herself say. “I shouldn’t be here.”

 

“You’re exactly where you belong.” His voice is firm and warm, much like the hand he places on her head, guiding it to his shoulder. He rests his cheek on the top of it, his stubble scratching at her scalp, his hand rubbing comforting circles into her back. “You didn’t kill Sunshine, Hawke.” He says quietly after some time has passed. “You did your best.”

 

“Did my best?” She repeats, a laugh bubbling up within her throat. “I did my best?” Hawke pulls back, her vision blurry as the tears continue to come. “I left her to _die_ , Varric. I knew that it was going to be dangerous, I knew that there were risks, and I brought her along anyway.” She glares at him, her fists balling up in her lap. “My mother knew that something was going to go wrong, she knew that she shouldn’t trust my judgment. And I,” her voice cracks, “I killed her daughter. I took her, and I sent her to the Wardens to die.”

 

Varric remains silent, and Hawke runs her hand over the top of her head, her laugh watery. “She can’t even look at me, you know.” She shakes her head, cackling dryly. “She can’t even _look_ at me. I’m not her daughter anymore. Just the bitch that killed her children.” She feels her nails digging into her scalp as she holds her head, her body rocking back and forth in an attempt to find some relief for the twisting in her gut. “It should’ve been me.” She mutters. “It should’ve been me in the Wilds. In the Deep Roads. I should’ve,” she finds that she can no longer get the words out, and she doesn’t realize that Varric is holding onto her until she dissolves into painful sobs.

 

With shaky hands she clings to him, burying her face in the crook of his neck, his skin becoming slick with her tears. She cries until she has nothing left, her fingers eventually loosening their hold on his shirt, her mind slipping away to somewhere deeper and darker than the Deep Roads.

 

 


	9. Crack the Shutters

Hawke is soft. Softer than he would’ve imagined a warrior to be. Varric doesn’t move, doesn’t blink, doesn’t even _breathe_ for fear of waking her. Instead, he tries to think of what he needs to accomplish for the day. There was the matter of their loot from the Deep Roads, and his unfinished letter to Bianca about the goods he couldn’t sell, and tracking down Bartrand. He thinks, and he squints, and he tries his damndest to focus.

 

But it doesn’t work.

 

It doesn’t work, because Hawke is soft. He feels his skin warm at the sound of her soft sighs. And he swallows hard as she threads one soft thigh through his legs, one arm hugging him closer. Her soft lips brush against his cheek, her breath feather-light on his ear.

 

Varric’s mouth is dry. He wants to get up and get a glass of water. He wants to never move again. For a minute, he thinks it’s touch starvation. He hadn’t been with anyone since his last liaison with Bianca, and that had been quite some time ago. It wasn’t unthinkable that his body would be craving some form of physical affection. And Hawke, he had found, was a very hands-on kind of person when she finally felt comfortable. Always laying a hand on his arm, or sitting thigh-to-thigh with him at their table, or resting her elbow on his shoulder while she mapped out their next adventure.

 

He is so caught up in his thoughts that he doesn’t notice that she’s awake until one calloused hand pushes his face as his bedmate tries to rouse herself into consciousness. “What year is it?” She mumbles sleepily.

 

Varric catches her hand mid-stretch before she can deliver another blow. “You weren’t out for that long, Hawke.” He says, brushing his thumb along her fingertips.

 

She almost looks surprised as her eyes focus on him, her eyebrows slowly knitting together. “Varric, what are you,” a look of recognition crosses her face. She groans and rolls away from him, throwing an arm dramatically over her face. “Oh, Io, you’ve really done it now.” She mutters, in that way that makes Varric suspect that she’s really just a sucker for the attention. He watches her chest rise and fall, her fist curled tightly against her closed eyes. “I’ve made a complete fool out of myself, haven’t I.” She says without looking at him.

 

He rolls onto his side, propping himself up on his elbow. “Not at all,” he replies reassuringly. “The caring hero, distraught after a mission, seeks the comforts of Kirkwall’s handsomest dwarf.” He sees the smile tugging at her lips and reaches out to move the hand away from her face. “It _is_ okay to have feelings, Io. Feelings that you share with other people.” He brushes his thumb absently across her cheek, gently turning her head until she meets his eyes. “You’re beautiful and deadly, yes, but you don’t have to do it all alone.”

 

She stares up at him, her plump lips parted slightly, her eyes welling with tears. An unfamiliar warmth pools like honey in his chest, and he feels his heartbeat quicken. A muddled thought crosses his mind, one that he’s sure that he’s felt before. But before he can grasp it, his name on her lips jolts him back into the present.

 

“Varric.” Her voice is a soft pink smoke inside of his head. A hazy pink, like the sun-tinted sky that evening on the Wounded Coast, the clouds rolling listlessly across the horizon. Pink like her cheeks, her flush just barely visible under her warm brown skin.

 

And in that moment, he is ready to do anything she asks. “I’m here.” His voice is husky, unfamiliar in his own ears. “What do you need?”

 

She sits up abruptly, knocking him back. “I’ve got to go.” Before he can react, she is throwing her legs over the side of the bed and searching the floor for her boots.

 

Dumbly, he watches her scrambling on all fours to peer under the bed. “Wh-,” he frowns. “What do you mean you have to go?” He is ready to do almost anything for her, except to let her leave.

 

“My mother, Varric,” she says, pulling on one sock. When he stares at her blankly, she rolls her eyes, gesturing to him. “You said it yourself, you can’t hold in feelings. You can’t hold in feelings or else you’ll show up to your friend’s home and cry yourself to sleep in their arms.” Hawke pulls on her boots, pausing in between her lacing. “I need to clear this up now, or else I’ll go complete mad. I,” she folds her hands in her lap, pausing to take a breath. “I know that this was my fault and that I didn’t do enough, but I’m not going to let this become another Carver between us.”

 

“Hawke,” he feels himself coming down from his momentary high, his thoughts clearing.

 

“There are already enough ghosts in my family, Varric.” She stands, her back straight, her eyes glinting with the same determination that had gotten her into this mess. “I won’t let Bethany become one of them.” Her expression flickers briefly, and she looks almost bashful. “Thank you for last night.” She says softly. “I mean it, Varric, thank you.”

 

Without giving him a chance to respond, she is gone as quickly as she arrived. Varric falls back into the pillows, his hand splayed against the quickly-cooling spot at his side. Hawke is soft. Softer than he had ever imagined, or even bothered to notice. Yet he still feels the punch like a blow to the head, leaving him with stars dancing before his eyes.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two gifs that desctibe Varric post-chapter:  
> http://68.media.tumblr.com/a883719871dd41326290fd7d9f42250a/tumblr_inline_oiz3ouC2Rz1u6fkkg_500.gif
> 
> https://68.media.tumblr.com/58a09cfaa7d2e3644d232ea13d5fab2c/tumblr_nttqkoQCFm1s60oo7o1_250.gif


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